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My Body Language

"I have read of miracles, yet wonder about my own."

Published onNov 12, 2023
My Body Language

Photo by Pixabay:

I carry a grief few know, fewer hear— 
the language of my body and its foreign sounds:
spontaneous, diagnostic for no explanation. It signifies nouns

and verbs external to my state imposing  
syntax to my frame. My composition 
is a morpheme unable to stand alone. 

Just one more step, I prayed. 
And I heard that kin-voice, my older brother next to me, 
who taught farming at the same university: 
i.e., the art of sustaining life amid the elements.
This is a grief few know, yet he saw, walked, and toiled with me. 

I have read of miracles, yet wonder about my own. But this I know:
grief’s sentence is finite, for grief holds no eternity. Lo
witness God rewrite my smallest cry to verb: hands lifted high.

Megan Huwa is a freelance editor in higher education and a poet and writer in San Diego, CA. Her work has been published in Letters Journal, The Penwood Review, The Midwest Quarterly (Summer 2023), The Habit podcast (Summer 2023), and her website Born the fifth generation on her family’s Colorado farm and a classically-trained pianist, she melds in her poetry aurality, rural life, and empathy through the varied voices and lives of those she observes. A rare health condition keeps her from living in Colorado, so her poetry reaches for home—both temporal and eternal.

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